Ineffable Incantations: a Potter Omens Fic
by athousandelegies
Summary: Crowley's and Aziraphale's fifth year at Hogwarts is an eventful one, complete with dementors patrolling the grounds, the strains of studying for OWLs, the pangs of secret infatuation, and troubling predictions of impending misfortune.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note_

Look who's completed the first chapter of her Potter Omens fic instead of studying for her midterms! …I'm sure I'll regret it this weekend when I have to do all the schoolwork that's piled up, but hey, why write essays when you can write fanfiction, right?

Here's the thing: I plan on this being a rather lengthy multi-chapter story, and while I have it all plotted out in my head this is all I've actually written up so far. And assuming I'll be a good little college student from now on and put homework before this, updates will likely be extremely sporadic. Therefore, here's my disclaimer: _I wouldn't suggest beginning this now unless you're okay with waiting a while for the next installment._ But I promise, I firmly intend finish this fic—just about the only thing that could stop me from completing it is death (and perhaps not even death: if need be, my ghost-self will just have to rise from its grave to finish this darn thing)—it just might take me a while.

One reason for posting this chapter now instead of waiting till I have more written is that I'd really appreciate some feedback! I know, I know, same old story, the writer whining for more reviews—but carving out a patch of Hogwarts that supports the characters of _Good Omens_ has proven to be quite a challenge for me, and I really would love to hear what I'm doing right or wrong. If something seems off to you, or if you have suggestions for anything, let me know and I can fix it in chapters down the line!

Oh, and another thing, I came up with the title in a spurt of desperation; don't be surprised if I change it soon (please, brain, please come up with something better…)

Anyway, this longwinded author's note is finally nearing its conclusion. Whew. This story takes place in what in J. K. Rowling's masterful series is Harry's third year; thus many of the events of _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ are alluded to. Crowley and Aziraphale are in their fifth year. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

As the Hogwarts Express pulled out from Platform 9 and ¾ with a hiss of steam and an earsplitting blast from its whistle, Crowley slouched sullenly in his seat across from Aziraphale. He was glaring out the window through dark-tinted sunglasses, inwardly seething at his own idiocy.

Aziraphale seemed oblivious to the Gryffindor's bad mood. He hadn't stopped talking since they'd been reunited in the station, and if Crowley weren't too busy brooding, he'd have been wondering whether his friend were even pausing between words for air.

"Now, fifth year is when things get serious," Aziraphale was saying at that moment. "I've drawn up study schedules for us both so that we can get to work on OWL preparations right away…"

Crowley wasn't listening. His mind was fuming at him, over and over: "_You fool. Of all the idiotic notions…you stupid, ridiculous, fool." _

He'd been eager to see Aziraphale again, of course—after all, a whole summer is a long time to go without seeing your best friend. He'd arrived at King's Cross with his trunk and his owl and looked around for the short little Ravenclaw with the unruly curls—and found himself gazing not down but straight into Aziraphale's sparkling eyes. The bastard seemed to have had his growth spurt at last over break; he was now almost exactly the same height as Crowley.

Excitable as ever, Az had swept his friend into a hug, and Crowley was suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact: of Aziraphale's robes tangling with his own, of Aziraphale's hands against his shoulder blades and Aziraphale's hair tickling his ear.

The Ravenclaw had pulled back and beamed at Crowley, whose reeling mind fell back on his customary nonchalance.

"Wow, you've gotten tall, Az. You get zapped by an engorgement charm or something?"

As the train huffed out of King's Cross and London fell away, the view from the window opened onto a serene, unsullied stretch of English countryside. Lulled by the rhythmic cadence of the wheels clattering away along the tracks below, Crowley felt the shock of his realization gradually subside.

Fancy his best friend? Fancy _Aziraphale_? No. It was absurd. It would pass—he'd make sure it did.

He allowed himself to relax, loosening muscles he hadn't even realized he'd tensed and straightening up a little in his seat to flash Aziraphale a devilish grin.

"Honestly, Az, it's not even the first day of classes yet—do you really need to worry about studying already? If you jabber on any longer about school, I'll hex you and you can spend the rest of the trip stuffed in the luggage rack."

They spent the next few hours swapping stories about their respective summers. As they conversed, the world outside the train grew shadowy and then black as the clouds grew thicker and stormier above the rolling fields of Northern England and then of Scotland. Rain lashed out against the windows, but inside the car was cozy and bathed in the warm golden glow of the lamps.

Aziraphale had gone on holiday in France with his family, and Crowley got a kick out of hearing the various proceedings of muggle life ("But how does something that big stay up in the air without magic? And with a whole load of people in it too! Nah, it's gotta be magic." "Packing by hand, cleaning by hand, no spells to keep the sand out of your hair or the water out of your eyes on the beach—you sure this was a holiday? Sounds more like torture to me.")

Crowley had spent the summer at his less-than-sane grandfather's manor in Northern England. He spent almost all of his breaks there—his father was, well, who knew where, and his mum was an auror and therefore rarely home to take care of him.

He managed to send Aziraphale into hysterics with his recounting of the night his grandfather coerced him into venturing out under a full moon to hunt for "seleniradesecens toadstools" in the bogs. Before finding a single one of the glowing mushrooms—which Crowley was almost certain didn't actually exist in the first place—they'd been assailed by a swarm of doxies. ("He's absolutely barmy, I tell you. And I kept finding more doxy bites in awkward places for at least a week afterward.")

His animated retelling of the evening his granddad had accidently mixed a babbling beverage into their supper's stew was interrupted by the compartment door sliding open.

In glided a graceful girl with sharp features; she had a glint in her eyes that suggested she knew far more about everything and everyone than was entirely decent. An exquisite jade pin* swept her glossy black hair back from her face and complimented the green of the Slytherin insignia on her robes. Following her came a tall, gangly boy with too-long limbs and features even darker than his companion's. He stumbled on the threshold, almost careening into the girl but catching himself just in time.

"Anathema, Newton, nice to see you!" said Crowley, grinning at the newcomers.

"Crowley. Aziraphale," the Slytherin said in way of greeting, bobbing her sharp chin in the direction of each as she said their names. "Mind if we join you?"

"Not at all," said Aziraphale warmly. He gestured to the badges clearly visible on both their chests. "I see you were both made prefects. Congratulations!"

"I'm a bit surprised you weren't, Aziraphale," said Newton, clumsily folding his limbs into the seat next to the Ravenclaw. "I can understand why they didn't pick you, Crowley—no offence—but Aziraphale has always been good about following the rules and all."

Anathema snorted as she slid fluidly into the seat beside Crowley. "They know better than to make someone like Aziraphale a prefect," she explained matter-of-factly. "He always has his head in the clouds, or his nose in a book. He could walk past students having an all-out duel and not even notice the jinxes whizzing over his head, let alone have the inclination to put a stop to it."

She paused, and her eyes flashed Aziraphale a meaningful look that sent a strange chill down his spine. "Plus," she added, a mysterious and utterly unnerving smile playing along her lips, "our respectable little Ravenclaw is going to be getting up to a quite a lot of mischief this year."

An uncomfortable silence settled briefly over the compartment. Crowley glanced at Newt, who gave him an apologetic look, as if to say, _You know I don't have any more idea where she gets this stuff than you do_.

Aziraphale was the one who broke it, looking miffed. "Well, I can't imagine what sort of 'mischief' you expect me to be planning on, Anathema," he huffed. "It's our fifth year, and in case you lot have forgotten we have our OWLs, _a test that will decide our entire futures_, in spring. So I don't know about you, but I for one will be much too busy studying to make any trouble."

Crowley could scarcely keep from sniggering at the excessively severe expression on his friend's face. Aziraphale finished his statement with a toss of his head that caused his curls to bounce vigorously and Crowley lost it.

"And what do _you_ think is so funny?" Aziraphale snapped, thoroughly peeved now. He fixed the Gryffindor with a glowering look that reminded Crowley just how dangerous his harmless-looking friend could be; he sobered up immediately.

"Nothing at all, Az," he said smoothly, the very picture of sincerity. "I'm just so very _happy_ to be among friends again, aren't we having a jolly time?"

Anathema threw a cushion at him. He seized it and whacked her over the head with it, cackling absurdly. Half-laughing, half-shrieking, she dove for another cushion to retaliate.

Newt quickly joined the fray, followed by Aziraphale, and soon enough the compartment was ringing with shrieks and thumps and peals of riotous laughter. Anyone passing by in the corridor outside would have thought it was full of immature first years, not four fifth years—and two of them prefects, no less.

Their roughhousing was interrupted abruptly.

As Crowley and Newton wrestled for control of a cushion and Aziraphale deflected Anathema's assault with a ludicrously hefty book, the lights suddenly flickered off, leaving them submerged in darkness.

"Mmmf. Ger-off me," came a muffled voice from underneath Newton.

"Sorry, Crowley," the gangly Hufflepuff said, awkwardly disentangling his long limbs from where he'd toppled over onto the disgruntled Gryffindor. "Why'd the lights go out?"

Everyone turned to Anathema. By this point it was second nature to all of them to consult her whenever something peculiar had happened; the prescient Slytherin often greeted such uncanny events with a disconcerting grin and a smug, "Saw that one coming a mile off."

This time, however, the silhouette that was Anathema in the dense blanket of darkness merely shrugged. "I…don't know," she said, sounding as surprised as they were to find herself without an answer.

"The train's stopped," Aziraphale stated calmly, and suddenly they all noticed what they hadn't before—during their tussle, the rhythmic movement beneath their feet had slowed and shuddered to a halt. No longer could they hear the heaving of the pistons and the rattling of the wheels. There was a deathly hush over everything, a silence so heavy it was nearly palpable, broken only by the moaning of the wind and the rain beating relentlessly against the panes.

Aziraphale's tone had been one of composure, but Crowley knew his friend too well to fail to notice the tiny tremor in the Ravenclaw's voice. He felt his way past Newt to stand beside Aziraphale in the gloom, wordlessly passing a steadying arm over his shoulder.

"I'm sure it's nothing," he said, trying to reassure himself as well as the others. "They'll have things up and running again soon enough."

And then the temperature plummeted.

Crowley hated the cold. He found even mildly chilly days almost unbearable, bundling up into as many layers as he could get his hands on as soon as the first hint of frost crept over the Hogwarts grounds in late autumn. Once, when he'd been mountain climbing in northern Europe, he'd gotten terrible frostbite and nearly lost some fingers. That expedition had been the coldest he'd ever felt—but _this_ was a completely different species of cold.

It was a cold so complete it seemed to penetrate far deeper than the skin, deeper even than the marrow of their bones. It sucked every last vestige of heat from their very chests, burrowing into their hearts like a worm of ice, gnawing out all traces of warmth and leaving an empty frozenness in its wake. Instinctively, Crowley's arm around Aziraphale tightened. He heard the Ravenclaw whimper.

Through the window of the compartment door, they could see spectral figures drifting through the corridor. Taller than any man, draped in ragged hoods and cloaks even blacker than the shadows all around them, even through the glass they emitted an aura for which Crowley's suddenly frozen brain could only find one word: _Horror_.

Thoughts were entering his head and congealing there, suspended ruthlessly in the icy tundra of his mind—memories that he'd never dared to dwell upon. He felt sick, and numb, and horribly, horribly miserable; the only thing keeping him on his feet was Aziraphale. They clung to each other, and Newt and Anathema in the darkness did the same. The four of them watched, immobile, as one of the horrifying beings paused outside their compartment.

As in a nightmare, Crowley willed his body to move, to lock the bloody door, to do _anything_, but his limbs, drenched with that potent, probing cold, refused to budge. An ashen hand protruded from beneath the ink-black robe, scabbed and bloated like that of a waterlogged corpse, and raised itself to slide the door open. The four of them looked on helplessly, eyes wide and awful memories drowning out all other thought.

And then, from the midst of the overwhelming darkness, a light, blissfully bright, silver as the moon, burst into being. It charged down the corridor, slicing through the shadows like a sword through wood. The phantom figures fled at its approach, sliding away like so much smoke wafted into oblivion by a purifying gust of wind.

The silver light melted away as soon as the last spectral form had fled from the train. Gradually, the lanterns above the luggage racks flickered back into life, chasing away all remnants of shadow.

The four companions released each other and, one by one, sank into their seats. They could hear the sound of other students moving about in the other cars, laughing shakily or murmuring comfort to each other, picking up fallen trunks and moving to other compartments to check on friends. Soon enough, the sound of the train coming back to life filled the compartment, and the floor shook once more with the steady cadence of the wheels clattering along the track, as the Hogwarts Express hurtled through the rain towards its destination once again.

"W-what _were_ those things?" Newt finally asked, his voice weak and cracking on the last syllable.

"Dementors," Aziraphale said woodenly. Crowley didn't like the haunted look in his friend's eyes. He considered putting his arm back around the Ravenclaw, the way Newt still had his around Anathema's, but now that the immediate terror had passed he found he was too embarrassed to do so. "They feed off happiness," Aziraphale continued, and as he spoke Crowley was relieved to see a bit of life return to his gaze, " leaving you with nothing but despair. I—I have no idea how they ended up on the Hogwarts Express, though. They're supposed to guard Azkaban…perhaps it has to do with Black's escape?"

Anathema shifted, shrugging off Newton's arm as she stood.

"We're prefects now, we ought to be checking on everyone, making sure they're all right," she said.

"Oh, um, right," Newt said. He stood too. "We'll be back soon enough," he said to Aziraphale and Crowley, and trailed behind the Slytherin as she strode purposefully out into the corridor.

Crowley and Aziraphale were left in awkward silence.

"Er…they were here about Black's escape, you said?" Crowley said, just to break the silence. "Yeah, could be. And I wonder what that silver light thing was that scared them off..."

He glanced over at Aziraphale beside him and saw that the Ravenclaw was staring at him appraisingly, eyes keen and earnest through his thick spectacles. Crowley felt the back of his neck grow hot, and shifted in his seat. "…What?"

"Crowley, are you…you know, all right?" Aziraphale appeared suddenly embarrassed, but didn't look away. "I just mean, that, well…the dementors force you to relive your worst memories, and I know you've got some pretty, er, pretty bad ones—"

"I'm fine," Crowley snapped, harsher than he'd intended. "I'm fine, Az," he repeated, more gently. "It's over now, those bloody joy-suckers are gone, so what's the use in thinking about it anymore, right?"

Damn, he hated that look Aziraphale had, the one so overflowing with compassion and understanding that he didn't know how the Ravenclaw didn't explode with it. It was enough to make him puke.

"And you're okay, right, Azi?" he returned, a bit haltingly.

"Yes. You're right, of course, it's over now." To his relief, Aziraphale finally blinked and looked away to peer towards the corridor. "Hopefully Newton and Anathema can help calm down any younger students who need it, and we can all put this behind us."

"Terrible creatures though, yeah? What the hell's the Ministry thinking, letting them get away from Azkaban?"

They continued to converse in broken sentences, discussing Black, the murderous fugitive, and attempting to describe the feeling the dementors had instilled in them. They spoke less because they had something to say than because they feared the newly-unearthed memories that would float insidiously back into their thoughts if they were left in silence.

Anathema and Newt slipped back into the car soon enough, and they brought more information with them.

"The silver beam that made all the dementors go away? That was a patronus," Anathema said in lieu of greeting. "We popped our head into one car, and Harry Potter was passed out on the seat—"

"I thought he was dead for a second," Newton interrupted, "he was that pale—"

"Yeah, well, you must be blind because he was shaking like a leaf," Anathema scoffed. "Plus I definitely would've been alerted if something as big as the 'boy who lived' dying was about to occur."

"Are you _ever_ going to tell us where you even get your information?" Crowley asked, but only out of habit.**

True to form, the Slytherin ignored his question, continuing as if she hadn't heard: "I feel bad for the poor kid, the whole school's going to be gossiping about his fit or whatever it was for the next week at least. But _anyway_, there was a teacher, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I'd guess, in there with them; he'd cast the patronus, so there's that mystery cleared up. He had that coach under control, so we moved on to the next one—oh, but he gave us this to give to everyone, I saved a bit for you two…" She drew a tinfoil wrapper from her robes and unwrapped the last of what must have been a very large, very dense bar of chocolate. She broke it in half—it made a pleasantly crisp snapping sound—and handed a piece each to Crowley and Aziraphale.

"Just eat it, it really does help," Newt prompted, observing Crowley's questioning look.

Shrugging, Crowley placed the sliver of chocolate in his mouth—and felt the lingering chill, a residue of gloom that not even the relit lamps had been able to dispel, melt away. It was as if he'd forgotten that a numbing shard of ice wedged was in his heart, and it had been suddenly removed, allowing warmth to flow through his bloodstream into his limbs at last. It felt so good that he actually smiled, relaxing as the melancholy drained from his skin and also—he could have sworn—from his soul.

"Thank you, Anathema," Aziraphale said gratefully from beside him. "That feels much better."

By the time the Hogwarts Express had huffed into Hogsmeade Station, they had all more or less recovered. The incident had receded into memory, an ordeal that had occurred but was past now, and their limbs had lost their shakiness as they stood up to gather their trunks and pets and shuffle down the corridor and out into the chill of the rainy night.

They clambered into a stagecoach*** and settled in. Rainwater dripped from their robes onto the seats as they let themselves be driven down the long, muddy track towards the turrets and towers of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

_Footnotes_

*The pin was more than just a pretty adornment—being descended from a line of sensible witches, Anathema knew better than to place the entirety of her faith in protective amulets and spells; keeping a knife on one's person never went amiss, in her experience.

**Anathema had been making her uncanny predictions since their first year and everyone was still clueless about how she made them—it wasn't tea leaves, or crystal balls, or tarot cards, or any of the standard divination methods, as far as they knew; though she was quite proficient in those as well.

***Crowley shuddered only a little bit at the skeletally gaunt equine creatures with the veiny gossamer wings and ghostly white eyes pulling them; he'd grown used to them by that point and had given up trying to convince Aziraphale they were really there.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note_

Look, an update, it's a miracle! Sorry for the delay, but, well, I did warn you. And I suppose you'd expect such a long wait to culminate in a simply spectacular chapter, right? Um…not quite. But I hope you enjoy it! More characters are introduced, which is always fun, if a little overwhelming.

Dumbledore's lines are taken straight from Rowling's _The Prisoner of Azkaban_. Oh, and if you have questions about my Housing choices, feel free to ask! I do intend on making a tumblr post about it, eventually.

I believe that's it, so yes, thanks for reading!

* * *

"Oy, Crowley! Come sit with us, mate!"

Crowley gratefully made his way to the bench that the Weasley twins were occupying at the long, dish-laden, scarlet-decked table.

He didn't have many friends among Gryffindor House. The suspicious whispers that had trailed him throughout his initial few months at Hogwarts had eventually yielded to a rather grudging acceptance, at least, but never approached anything even bordering on camaraderie. Fred and George, however, had never seemed to care two Knuts about his background—they'd always treated him with esteem and even, to his infinite surprise, seemed to like him. They'd gotten along since their first year, when he'd come up with an alibi for them in Herbology.

The normally genial Professor Sprout had been ready to explode when it was discovered that someone had been meddling with her flutterby bushes, tying little bells to their branches that jingled out curse-words at passersby, and damaging them rather badly in the process. And even though they'd only been at the school for a few months, Fred and George were well on their way to establishing a reputation for mayhem—it was logical enough that she had rounded on them.

"They couldn't have done it, Professor! Er…they were with me in the library all afternoon!" he'd butted in, startling both the guilty-looking twins and the frazzled herbology teacher. "—Not studying, of course," he'd hastily amended at her disbelieving look; "they were…charming books to hurl themselves at Madame Pince as she passed." He couldn't have said what had possessed him to stick his nose into other people's business; nevertheless, he plowed obstinately on. "Okay, so not exactly innocent behavior, I'll admit, but, you know…far away from your greenhouses, and all."

Sprout hadn't seemed completely convinced, but she'd already developed something of a soft spot for the dark-haired first year with the penchant for plants, and so she'd let it go.

Fred and George, who of course _had_ been the ones messing with the plants, had thanked him profusely and added, "Charming books to fly at Pince, that's not a bad idea, might have to try that some time." They'd even been good-natured about Crowley's request that they keep their pranks out of the greenhouses from then on.

Ever since, he often assisted them in various minor acts of chaos*. He considered himself an admirer of all jibes at authority—so long as they were mostly harmless—and the Weasley twins were the unrivaled kings of all things mischievous.

"Some show on the Express, eh?" Crowley said as he squeezed in beside Fred on the bench. "With the dementors and all, I mean."

"Yeah," George said darkly, "what's the Ministry playing at, letting those things loose on a train full of kids?"

"Talk about killjoys," Fred said. "Glad they didn't do too much harm, the rot-breathed buggers."

There was a pause. Crowley suddenly didn't want to talk about the dementors anymore, and got the distinct feeling the twins didn't either. Bit of a mood-killer, really, to bring creatures that could suck the very happiness out of you into a conversation.

"So, anyway, how was your summer?" Crowley asked.

"Pretty good, we went on holiday in Egypt, visiting our brother Bill," George said. "He works for Gringotts—"

"—Breaking into pyramids, dodging curses and hauling out treasures for the goblins—it's a noble occupation," Fred broke in.

"Better than what Percy aspires to, anyway," George agreed.

"What's that?" Crowley asked curiously. He glanced down the long table to where Percy, whose hair was as vividly red as his brothers' but whose default expression behind his horn-rimmed spectacles seemed to be one of hassled disdain, was sitting. He kept rubbing at the brand-new Head Boy badge gleaming on his robes, as if he could make it shine even brighter**.

"_He_ wants to work in the Ministry," Fred replied. "Like Dad, but, you know, not like Dad at all."

"Wouldn't be surprised if he dreams of being Minister one day," George added.

"Can you imagine that? We'd campaign for him, of course, since we're such supportive brothers and all."

"I can see it now," George said, an exaggerated dreaminess settling over his features. "Vote for Percy 'Bighead' Weasley—he'll bring the Ministry to a whole new level of priggishness."

Crowley stifled his snicker as a hush suddenly fell over the Hall. The heavy doors had swung smoothly open to allow Professor Flitwick to waddle in, followed by a bedraggled, sopping-wet gaggle of first years. They shuffled after him past the four tables of curious older students to come to a rest in front of the head table, from which the Hogwarts staff looked on. There they stood close together, looking small and lost, like a flock of lambs that had somehow wandered into the rams' pen. The only sound throughout the hall was the steady dripping of their sodden robes onto the stone floor—it was a rather inclement night for a row across the lake.

"I wonder where McGonagall is," Crowley muttered to Fred, and the murmur rippling through the Hall showed that other students were wondering the same thing.

His merry eyes gleaming in the candle light, Flitwick stood beside a three-legged stole that was almost as tall as he was and on which sat an unremarkable, battered old wizard's hat. He stepped back, and the hat, a seam near its brim raising like a mouth, burst into its annual song. It sang of the four Founders—industrious Helga, cunning Salazar, audacious Godric, and erudite Rowena—and its own role in sorting students into their respective Houses. Then it went quiet, and Flitwick stepped back up to stand beside it, a scroll in his hands.

"When I call your name, please step forward," he chirruped in his squeaky, bubbling voice, "and place this hat upon your head." Unrolling the scroll, he called out a name, and a tiny, dark-haired girl staggered hesitantly forward. "Come, now, dear, don't be shy, up you get."

Crowley only half paid attention as each first year was called forward to try on the hat. Among them were: a pensive-looking, bespectacled boy with light brown, wavy hair whom Crowley had pinned as a Ravenclaw at a glance but whom the Hat proclaimed after a half a minute's deliberation to be a Hufflepuff; a girl covered in freckles with flaming hair ("She a cousin of yours?" Crowley murmured to Fred. "Not that I know of," came the reply) who was declared a Gryffindor; and a rather plump boy with a nervous yet cheerful expression and somewhat grubby robes who was placed into Hufflepuff almost before the hat had skimmed the top of his head.

At last there remained but one student to be sorted.

"Young, Adam," Flitwick's voice called, and Crowley was brought fully to attention by the sudden buzz that rolled through the Hall. At all four tables, students were nudging one another and craning their heads for a better look at the short figure with the disheveled golden hair stepping up to the sorting hat.

Young. Where had Crowley heard that name recently? Ah, yes. _The Daily Prophet_. Tucked in among all the headlines about the hunt for Black, there'd been a sizable article a few months ago about a magical disturbance at a muggle zoo caused by a ten year old who hadn't even known he was a wizard.

There'd been chaos in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as they tried to find ways to explain away such phenomena as an exhibit of monkeys whose fur had suddenly gone all colors of the rainbow, a shower of rainforest tree frogs, and five floating elephants to countless muggle witnesses.

Such power exhibited by a wandless youth who hadn't so much as known that magic existed was certainly remarkable, especially as his tricks seemed more focused than those of most underage wizards and witches. Apart from recounting the damage done and the reactions of muggle onlookers, the _Prophet_ articles had included speculation about the great things to come from Adam Young.

Crowley felt a twinge of sympathy for the kid. He knew what it was like to enter Hogwarts with a reputation—good or bad—already established.

The hat fell over the boy's overlarge ears, and took nearly a full minute before it shouted decisively, "Gryffindor!"

Adam tumbled off the stool and approached the scarlet-covered table of his new House. He tried his best to look unconcerned as he scanned the line of applauding Gryffindors for an available seat, but Crowley noticed the desperation behind the nonchalance.

Crowley caught the first year's eye from behind his sunglasses and jerked his chin toward the space he'd made on the bench beside him. Gratefully, Adam took the proffered spot, and as he sat his shoulders relaxed, as if relieved to be out of the spotlight at last.

As Adam was sitting down and Flitwick was carrying the hat on its stool from the Hall, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger slipped in. Crowley watched them settle down next to their fellow third year, Ron Weasley, a little ways down the table.

"Wonder where they were," he remarked to the twins beside him, but just then Headmaster Dumbledore rose to make his usual start of year feast announcements.

"Welcome!" he proclaimed, beaming around at the students. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast." Dumbledore cleared his throat. "As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the Dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business." He paused, and Crowley got the distinct feeling that behind his silvery beard and half-moon spectacles Dumbledore was no happier than any of them about this information. "They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds, and while they are with us I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises…" Dumbledore continued on, and Crowley felt a sense of gloom settle in his stomach. He hated the idea of dementors being so near all year long.

"They bloody better catch Black soon," he muttered to the twins as Dumbledore moved on to announce two new teachers: Professor Remus Lupin, a battered but intelligent looking wizard, for Defense Against the Dark Arts—"He'd better be less of a twat than Lockhart or I swear to Merlin," Fred muttered—and none other than Hagrid as the new Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Crowley clapped as enthusiastically as the other Gryffindors, though he had liked Kettleburn. He figured it was a good time for the older professor to retire, what with his growing deafness and his tendency to lose limbs.

"Well, I think that's everything of importance," Dumbledore finished; "let the feast begin!"

The golden platters and goblets suddenly filled to bursting with food and drink, and Crowley heard a gasped "Whoa!" from beside him. He shot Adam a grin.

"Huh. At least now we know why those dementors were on the train," George commented as he reached for a chicken leg.

"Don't know what the Ministry thinks they can do, seeing as Black's already slipped past them once," Fred threw in. "And did you see Dumbledore's face? He certainly isn't happy about it."

Crowley loaded his plate and then sipped his pumpkin juice as his gaze wandered around the Hall, scoping out his friends.

There was Newton at the Hufflepuff table, chatting with another fifth year, Cedric Diggory, and failing to notice that he'd spilled mashed potatoes down his robes.

His eyes wandered next to the Ravenclaw table, where he could just glimpse the back of Aziraphale's head and—no, was that really?—yes: he had a book propped open next to his plate. Crowley snorted. Even at the first feast of the year his friend couldn't go an hour without reading something.

The candlelight was glinting mesmerizingly along the Ravenclaw's curls—Crowley jerked his eyes away, scowling at his own thoughts, and looked towards the Slytherin table.

Anathema was sitting next to a few third years, that stuck-up Malfoy and his gang of grunts, and she did not look happy about it.

As if feeling Crowley's gaze on her, she looked up and met his eyes through his shades. She rolled her eyes in Malfoy's direction—he was talking animatedly while his cronies laughed, and Crowley could only guess it was about some unsavory topic—and mimed puking; then, as he watched, she said something sharply to the third year. The pasty-faced boy whipped his head in Anathema's direction as if to make a retort, but seemed to think better of it when he saw the dangerous look on her face. He and his group grew silent, and picked moodily at their food. Anathema winked at Crowley, who grinned back.

"Who's that?" a voice came from Crowley's left, startling him.

"Oh, er…Anathema," Crowley told Adam, who was staring up at him. "And you've got gravy on your chin," he said automatically***.

Adam ignored the last half of Crowley's reply. "That's a funny name. How come so many people here've got such funny names?"

Funny? Oh, right, he supposed muggles had different tastes when it came to naming their kids. "It's just what wizarding families do," he said; "often there's an old family name or whatever that they've been using for centuries."

"Is your name funny then?"

"I don't think so—is Anthony funny?"

"No, that's pretty normal, I know probably five of those." Adam sounded disappointed.

Crowley went back to his roast beef, but was interrupted by a nudge at his elbow. "Anthony?" He almost dropped his knife.

"Er, no, I'm not—I don't go by that," he said. "It's Crowley. Just call me Crowley."

"Sorry. So, um…I was just wonderin' if I'm weird for havin', you know, muggle parents and all."

"No," he answered firmly. "And if anybody tells you that you are, punch them in the gut, or zap them with a jinx, whichever's quicker."

Adam gave him a strange look, as if digesting this advice. Then he said, simply, "Okay," and tucked into the shepherd's pie on his plate without another word.

Crowley watched for a moment, nonplussed, then decided to give up on comprehending the boy beside him. He turned to Fred and George, who were recounting a tale of a haunted pyramid they'd visited that summer to their friend, Lee Jordan. Enjoying the feast and laughing at the twins' exploits, the dementors were forgotten. There was the whole of fifth year to look forward to.

* * *

_Footnotes_

*His favorite part was retelling their escapades to Aziraphale later, who always attempted to appear disapproving but could never quite hold back his giggles after they'd knocked back a few butterbeers.

**After long effort, he'd finally managed to lift the charm the twins had placed on it that had caused it to flash "bigboy" and "pinhead".

***Which was very strange, really—what did he care if some kid had gravy on his face? Yet he did care, somehow; he even had to resist the urge to reach out with his napkin to wipe it away himself. Definitely strange.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Can it be? An update before a whole month has passed? It's very short and rather pointless, though, so don't be too excited, dearies.

* * *

Crowley was sprawled across an armchair by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, his arms folded on his bulging stomach, enjoying the lethargy that a massive feast brings on, when a high-pitched voice across the room broke through his stupor.

"Uh, Mr. Percy Weasley, sir? Adam's crying, up in our dormitory…we don't know what to do."

Crowley opened one heavy lid and looked lazily over to where Percy was sitting, a couple of first year boys gazing up at him beseechingly. The Head Boy was peering at them through his horn-rimmed glasses, looking at a loss as to what to do with this information. He readjusted the badge on his robes distractedly.

"Right. Well, I suppose he must be homesick, that's only to be expected—I suggest you just let him have his cry, and he's bound to stop, soon enough."

"But the thing is, he's doin' something weird—there's a funny feeling in the room—"

Percy looked alarmed. "He's doing magic?"

"Sorta. But it's not hurting anything, it's just…kinda freaky."

"_Really_ freaky," the second boy amended.

Percy shut the book he'd been reading and stood. "Take me to him," he commanded.

_Poor little bastard_, Crowley thought; _he'll be hoping for comfort and all he'll get is Percy preaching at him_. He sighed.

"Hey, Weasley," he called, stretching his limbs luxuriously and rising lithely from his armchair.

Percy turned, looking annoyed. "What, Crowley?"

"Let me go calm the kid."

"What, _you_?" he returned, bemused.

Around the common room, the handful of students who hadn't headed off to bed yet perked up their heads, curious to hear this interchange between their grandiose Head Boy and the usually taciturn Crowley. "Yeah, I'll go talk to the kid."

Percy didn't look convinced. "I think I'll just—"

"Come on, Weasley," Crowley wheedled, "it's not like you want some first year blubbering into your robes."

That was a compelling enough argument for Percy. "All right, Crowley," he conceded. "But, er, call me if things get out of hand."

Crowley sauntered towards the boys' tower, ignoring the curious glances thrown his way, and started up the stairs to the first years' dormitory.

He felt a charged sort of energy even before he'd reached for the door. Wincing as the handle shocked his hand with static electricity, he stepped inside.

The room was dark, so that Crowley had to pull off his sunglasses to see. The only light came from the sparks crackling through the room, surging along the walls and bedposts. Crowley felt his hair rise along his scalp.

A muffled sobbing was emanating from the bed farthest from the door. Crowley strode over to the form quivering beneath the sheets.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, and suddenly realized he had no idea what to say. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Adam?"

The shape in the bedclothes froze. There was a surge of sparks, momentarily lighting the room in an eerie gold-green glow; Crowley sprang from the bed as sparks snaked up his body, sizzling electrically. "Ow!"

The figure stirred, and a round, tear-smudged face poked out from the blankets. "Sorry, Crowley," Adam said huskily. "I can't make the magic stop."

"Sure you can," Crowley argued firmly. "Look at yourself, crying like a baby, scaring your roommates away—is that what you want? To scare them?"

"I can't help it!" the first year cried, and Crowley was pleased to hear anger in his tone—anger would distract him from his despondency, at least.

"Get a hold of yourself," Crowley continued, making his voice gruff. "It's _your_ magic, you _can_ control it—you have to, or _it_ will control _you_."

Adam's face grew hard, his eyes narrowed, and Crowley wondered if playing it tough had been a bad idea. He started to back away, suddenly thinking he should be very wary of the eleven-year-old boy with the puffy eyes and tear tracks on his cheeks—but then Adam's expression relaxed, his shoulders fell, and the energy pulsing through the room ebbed away.

"I just—I miss Dog!" he croaked, and crumpled into the sheets, his crying renewed.

Cautiously, Crowley reseated himself beside Adam's shaking form. "A dog, huh? I've never had any pets, but I like animals too." He pondered what to say next. He doubted telling the kid he'd stop missing his dog eventually would be very helpful; damn, he was bad at this whole consoling thing. "So, uh, what's Dog like?"

To his surprise, this tactic seemed to work. Adam looked up, gave an almighty sniff, wiped messily at the tears and snot on his face with his pajama sleeve, and began, "Dog's not a big dog, he's the kind you have fun with—real small, and he's got a ear that's all floppy and inside out, and he always does everythin' I say…"

It went on for quite some while. Eventually, Crowley had to cut in. "Sounds like a great dog," he interrupted when Adam paused a moment.

"Oh, he is! Dog's the best dog that ever was." To Crowley's alarm, his eyes suddenly welled with tears again. "I sure wish he could of come with me—I wanna learn magic, I really do, but I don't see why Dog couldn't come too, when other people brought dumb old cats along!"

"I know, it's a rubbish rule," Crowley interjected hastily. "But you know, there are plenty of animals at Hogwarts—creatures I bet you've never seen before."

Adam peered at him doubtfully. "Like what?"

"Well, pixies and ghouls, for a start, just lurking around where you'd least expect them, and merfolk and a giant squid in the lake," he listed, and racked his brain for more. "Then there's whatever Hagrid's got prepared for his classes—oh! Hagrid has a dog. Not as good a one as your Dog, I'm sure, and really slobbery, but, you know."

Adam's face lit up. "You've gotta take me to see him! You will, won't you, Crowley?"

Crowley found he couldn't say no to that face. "Sure. Now, how about you get to sleep. And no more crying, okay? You'll love it here, I promise."

The other first year boys were slumped in the landing outside the door, looking glum.

"Room's all yours," he told them.

"You mean you got him to stop doing that freaky static thing?"

"Yep." He made his way up the spiral staircase, to the fifth year dormitory, where his four-poster bed was waiting for him.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: I thought I'd go ahead and shake things up for this chapter—but hush darlings, no need for alarm, it's just a minor shift in viewpoints. This one's written from Aziraphale's perspective instead of Crowley's, because hey, who doesn't want a better look into the mind of our favorite angel-turned-Ravenclaw? Shhh. Just relax and enjoy where the story leads you. All is well._

* * *

"_Boo_."

"Good heavens!" Aziraphale exclaimed as a sudden hand on his shoulder startled him from his reading. He dropped his spoon in surprise, splashing porridge onto the pages of his book.

"Honestly, Crowley, must you still do that? I'd rather hoped you would mature a bit over the summer," he huffed reproachfully. "_Tergeo_," he murmured, running his wand over the porridge-stained pages, effectively returning them to an immaculate state.

"Maybe if you'd stop reading at mealtimes, I wouldn't be able to sneak up on you so easily," Crowley retorted, swinging his legs over the bench and reaching past Aziraphale for the platter of toast. "And," he added as he slathered on jam, "maybe you would've noticed that they're handing out the timetables. Being the kindhearted person I am, I went ahead and picked yours up for you."

Aziraphale gave a little squeak and seized the parchment Crowley was holding out to him. His nose nearly touched its surface as he scanned it eagerly.

"Oh! Ravenclaws and Gryffindors have Herbology together at nine, that's nice. Ooh, and my Ancient Runes class is today, how exciting—"

"Speaking of Herbology, Az, we should get going if we want to make it before nine," Crowley cut in.

Aziraphale glanced at his wristwatch. "Oh my, is that the time? Yes, let's be off."

The storm from last night had vanished with the dawn, and the sky overhead was washed-out but clear as they trekked over the soggy grass towards the greenhouses.

They joined the fifth years filing into one of the upper level greenhouses and settled down at a table with Aziraphale's fellow Ravenclaw, a pallid boy with faded blond hair and watery gray eyes whom everyone called Chalky*. Fred and George ambled in last of all, and joined them at their table.

Professor Sprout began as soon as everyone was settled. "Welcome back, dearies!" she beamed around at them all from beneath her dusty brown witch's hat; "I hope you all had a pleasant summer and are plenty rested for the big year ahead of you!" Then she grew more serious, though her eyes remained sunny. "As I'm sure you are aware, fifth year is a big turning point in your magical careers—this is the year you begin to consider potential vocations, and, of course, you have the O.W.L.s in the spring. As your other professors will no doubt tell you, you will find that your workload increases significantly. I have great faith in every one of you, however, and I'm sure you'll all rise to the challenge!"

Sprout went on talking about O.W.L.s for several minutes. As she spoke, Aziraphale felt a tension building in his chest. So much work to be done, and so much riding on it—their whole futures depending on the accomplishments of this one year! He was relieved when she stopped at last, and introduced the project for today's class.

They'd be working with screechsnap seeds—"An easy enough task, but I leave it to my fifth years because screechsnap plants are very sensitive—does anyone know why?"

Aziraphale flung his hand into the air so quickly he almost hit Crowley in the face. "Because screechsnap is semi-sentient," he rattled off. "It is able to feel pain and pleasure, as well as move and generate sound—hence its name, _screech_snap."

"Very good, five points to Ravenclaw," Professor Sprout awarded. "Now everyone, gather supplies from the station in the back and work with your tables to properly pot the seeds."

"We'll get the stuff," Crowley informed Chalky and the twins, and Aziraphale followed him with the rest of the students who were making their way to the back of the room.

"Here, take this," Crowley ordered, thrusting a burlap sack at Aziraphale. It was emitting a ghastly stench.

"What in heaven's name is _in_ this?" he asked, scrunching up his nose.

"Dragon dung, of course," Crowley replied matter-of-factly as he scooped up pots and seeds and balanced them precariously in his own arms.

"Ugh!" Aziraphale exclaimed, holding the sack as far away from himself as he could.

"Just get it back to the table, Az," Crowley said distractedly, struggling to keep soil from spilling from the trays he'd piled on top of the pots in his arms.

He heaved the manure-filled bag dutifully back to the table.

Crowley wasn't far behind, and bustled about laying down trays and pots.

"Okay," he said, "Chalky, you pull out your textbook and read the instructions, keep us from messing anything up. Fred, George, you two spread the manure as Az and I lay out the screechsnap—don't pile it too heavily, though; the seeds'll be pretty vocal about it if you do."

"That's cool, Crowley, give us dung duty, thanks," George said, but he and Fred reached for their work gloves nevertheless.

"And don't even think of flicking the seeds about," Crowley warned them.

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Fred innocently.

The work went smoothly—more so for them than for some of the surrounding tables, where seeds that were being handled too carelessly let off grating shrieks. Professor Sprout reprimanded the members of one table, where unwatched seeds had begun an escape attempt and cascaded onto the floor, rolling every which way.

Aziraphale had never had Herbology with the Gryffindors before, and so was pleasantly surprised to see how Crowley took to his role as unstated leader of their table like—like, well, like a duck to water. He'd rarely seen his friend so focused on one task, his typical air of insouciance replaced by a cool intensity.

And, Aziraphale noted to himself, everyone had accepted Crowley's leadership without a word of discussion needing to be made. Chalky read as instructed from the textbook in his pale, whispery voice. Even Fred and George listened to him—though they also flicked bits of dung at each other and anyone else they could reach when Crowley wasn't looking.

"Az, are you daydreaming again? Let that seed go before it throws an all-out tantrum."

Aziraphale, jolted from his musings, looked guiltily down at the seed he'd forgotten he was holding. It was squirming in his grasp and groaning threateningly. He dropped it into a pocket of earth in a tray, grimacing apologetically.

When the period was coming to its close, their table had potted more of the seeds than any other, earning them warm praise from Professor Sprout.

She closed the lesson by assigning them a four-foot essay, and Aziraphale felt the tension in his chest return; Crowley's hand on his arm abated it a bit, and he did his best to shrug the feeling off—no use growing stressed about homework already, after all.

"What's your next class?" Crowley was asking him as they left the greenhouse behind.

"Potions," Aziraphale responded, "with the Hufflepuffs."

"Well, at least you'll have Newt to entertain you," Crowley remarked; neither of them were particularly fond of Potions, and especially of its professor, Snape.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. They both knew how dismal the gangly Hufflepuff was at Potions; Aziraphale would likely be spending every class trying to keep Newton from accidentally blowing the cauldron up. "I take it you have it with Anathema?"

"Yeah, later this evening. Right now, I've got Charms."

"Lucky you," said Aziraphale. Charms was one of his best classes. "Anyway, Herbology was significantly more enjoyable with you in it."

"Glad to hear that," Crowley said with a genuine smile. They'd reached the Entrance Hall. "Okay, I'm off to Charms, try to keep Newt from drenching his robes in acid the way he did that one time last year."

"Two times—he did that twice," Aziraphale corrected, and sighed. "I'll do my best."

They parted ways, one heading for the Charms room and the other descending into the chilly Hogwarts dungeons.

* * *

Footnotes:

*Despite having shared a dormitory with him for what was going on five years, Aziraphale knew eerily little about Chalky. He was grateful to have the bed furthest from him, as Chalky's part of the room always seemed to develop a stale sort of smell, and dust and grime tended to collect along it faster than the house-elves could keep up with.

* * *

Endnotes:

Did anyone notice Aziraphale getting his Hermione on? He'll probably do that pretty frequently; I feel there are a lot of similarities between the two of them.

Okay, but what I really want to do with this endnote here is to make it clear that I am very much open for suggestions of all kinds—exciting, right? I've reached the stage in this story where the chapter content will be very flexible more a while, so let me know if there's something in particular (a character, a class, an event, etc.) that you'd like me to include!

As has already been requested, I've begun incorporating the horsepersons in—hopefully you recognized Pollution here—so as you can see, I really will take your comments into account. There may be times, of course, when I'll have to decline your suggestions, because there is a main plotline that I am following here. Still, share your ideas and I'll see what I can do; I love to make my readers happy, when I can!


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley was in a bad mood when he joined Aziraphale at the Ravenclaw table the next morning.

"Did you hear? Care of Magical Creatures is cancelled for today," he grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand and seizing a plate rather aggressively with the other.

"Oh?" Aziraphale responded distractedly; he was reading from his Arithmancy textbook. "Why?"

"That Slytherin prat Malfoy went and got himself injured by one of the hippogriffs—hippogriffs, Az! Do you know how long I've wanted to see one of those?" He stabbed savagely at his French toast, alarming the first year sitting across from them. "And now I doubt Hagrid'll be allowed to show them to any of his other classes."

Aziraphale put his book down reluctantly, turning his full attention to his agitated friend. "Well, look on the bright side—you've now got almost two full hours to get started on the Potions essay."

Crowley fixed him with a glare. Aziraphale blinked tranquilly back. "What? Or your Muggle Studies paper, weren't you complaining last night about how long it has to be?"

"Not helping, Az," Crowley growled.

"Sorry."

Crowley declined his invitation to go study in the library, so Aziraphale headed off by himself, mentally planning what he'd get done in his unexpected free time before Transfiguration.

As he ambled, lost in thought, towards his favorite study table among the history of magic shelves, a bushy-haired figure darting through the library careened into him.

"Hermione! Hallo!" Aziraphale exclaimed, bending down to pick up the book she'd dropped. "Why the rush?"

"Oh! Hello, Aziraphale," she panted, working to regain her breath. "I'm just looking something up before my next class—I'm trying to find this one book but I just can't seem to think of where it would be and I can't locate Madame Pince and—"

"Which book, my dear?" Aziraphale interrupted.

"_Runology of the Ranrike_," she told him; "I've looked for it in all the obvious places, but it doesn't seem to be anywhere."

"Well, you're in luck," Aziraphale said with a smile; "I read that last year, I can lead you right to it."

He quite liked the third year Gryffindor, who shared his great affinity for books. He'd met her in a more advanced section of the library two years ago. At first he'd been skeptical—whatever was a first year doing so deep in the biographies of medieval wizards? Surely none of her classes required that. But it had turned out she'd been interested in the old philosopher Nicholas Flamel; he'd been happy to point her to the books he'd known to mention the name.

Hermione took the book gratefully from Aziraphale after he'd located it for her.

"Thanks, Aziraphale. I've got to be off now, Ancient Runes starts soon."

"Does it start at nine?" Aziraphale asked. He glanced at his watch. "It's 8:58 right now; I'm afraid you won't be able to make it on time."

"Oh, no, I'll make it, don't worry," she said, already dashing away, leaving him to shake his head bemusedly and then to settle down to get some work done.

* * *

Aziraphale almost forgot to head off to Transfiguration on time, having engrossed himself in a book; he slipped into the seat beside Crowley just as Professor McGonagall stood to begin class.

Just as all the teachers had yesterday, McGonagall began by lecturing them on the increased workload they'd be experiencing this year.

"And I feel it is only proper," she was saying, her keen eyes flitting from student to student, "to inform you that I only accept into my NEWT classes those students who receive an Exceeds Expectations or higher at the Ordinary Wizarding Level. Please keep that in mind whenever you find this year that you have to choose between idle merrymaking—" here her gaze seemed to linger particularly long on the Weasley twins, who were seated at the table in front of Aziraphale and Crowley—"and studying for this course."

The day's lesson, after McGonagall had finished speaking, was to transfigure a dove into a pair of silk gloves. This was by far one of the most challenging bits of magic she'd ever set for them, and having just come back from the long summer break, no one did very well.

After half an hour of waving his wand around and saying the required spell in all the different intonations he could think of, Aziraphale enviously eyed the glove Crowley had managed to produce. It was only one glove, not the pair they were aiming for, and the fingers were all the wrong sizes and rather lumpy; also, rather than smooth silk, the glove seemed to be made of gray-white feathers. Still, it was much better than what Aziraphale had accomplished—namely, a ruffled but utterly untransformed dove that was now pecking at his hand irritably.

"I just don't understand it," he grumbled crossly; "I can do inanimate objects just fine, but as soon as I'm given an animal I can't so much as get its feathers to vanish."

The dove suddenly made a leap for freedom, hopping into the air and spreading its wings. Aziraphale lunged for it before it could take off, nearly crushing it beneath his arms and chest in his efforts.

"Get off it, Az, before you smother it," Crowley said.

Aziraphale sheepishly lifted himself from off the bird, which was now even more bedraggled than before, a look of pure hatred in its beady black eyes.

"Look what you did, Az, its wing is all bent," Crowley scolded. He sighed. "Give it here."

Aziraphale looked guiltily at the crooked wing. "Oh dear," he said worriedly. "Do you think it's in pain?"

Crowley murmured a spell, and the wing righted itself. "Not anymore. Now be more careful, will you?"

McGonagall walked by at that moment; she tsked at Aziraphale's unchanged dove and nodded approvingly at Crowley's rather misshapen glove.

"Humph," was Aziraphale's response as she moved on to the next table, where Fred and George were enchanting two cast-off feathers to duel each other.

* * *

Aziraphale had Charms next, to his relief—after his abysmal performance in Transfiguration, he needed a class he could actually handle. It was Ravenclaws with Slytherins, so he slid into the seat beside Anathema as Flitwick began the expected speech about the challenges of the coming year. He then set them to work at the _locomotor_ charm.

"So, how are you, Anathema?" Aziraphale asked as he set a chair afloat. "How are things at home?"

"Good, good," Anathema said, waving her wand at a desk and glowering as it remained firmly on the floor.

"You're swinging your wand too wide on the upstroke," Aziraphale told her; "here, look at the diagram in the book. Keep your elbow stiff and give your wrist only the slightest flick upward."

She did as he instructed, and the desk obligingly rose a few inches into the air.

"And how is Semele?" Aziraphale asked.

"Oh, we broke up at the beginning of the summer," Anathema replied. Her voice was emotionless, but the desk fell back to the floor as she spoke. "She ended it," she admitted. "But I agreed it was for the best—being apart most of the year while I'm at Hogwarts just…wasn't working out."

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Anathema," Aziraphale said.

"It's all right, I've had all summer to get over it. And, well, I did see it coming." She sighed, and for a moment she allowed Aziraphale to see behind her façade. "It's just, sometimes…I don't _want_ to see these things coming, you know?"

He took her hand* in both of his. "I really am sorry, dear."

"Thanks, Aziraphale." She gently extracted her hand and returned to casting charms. The sadness on her face faded and she smiled faintly. "Besides, I've got my eye on someone else now."

Aziraphale felt a rare wave of playfulness rise up in him. "Well, I wonder who that might be," he teased; Anathema flicked him over the head with her wand.

* * *

After lunch, Aziraphale joined Crowley making his way for the North Tower.

"I can't believe you've convinced me to take this rubbish class again this year, Az," Crowley complained as they made their way up the silvery ladder and through the trapdoor into the hazy Divination classroom.

"It's for Anathema, Crowley," Aziraphale reminded him placidly, searching through the smoke and crimson-tinged light until he spotted Anathema and Newton sitting on two of the beanbags at one of the twenty or so round tables. There weren't enough students in their year who'd elected to take Divination, and so members of all four Houses had it at the same time.

They were beginning Cartomancy today, Professor Trelawney informed them, using a standard deck of playing cards.

"For today," Professor Trelawney announced in her misty, faraway voice, "we shall be looking only at the one-card spread. This is a technique that even those with the foggiest, faintest Inner Eye should have little trouble with." Aziraphale nudged Crowley, grinning. "The difficulty lies in interpreting the card you draw. Work with your tablemates to divine the secret meanings of your card."

Anathema shuffled their deck, and each drew a card as instructed in the textbook.

"I don't put much stock in Cartomancy myself," Anathema informed them, "and especially not the one-card spread." Trelawney, who was wandering by at that moment, her strings of beads clinking and bangles jingling around her bony wrists, scowled through her thick round glasses at the Slytherin girl, but said nothing**.

"I got a seven of hearts," Newton announced; "what's that mean?"

Crowley scanned the chart in his textbook. "Er…looks like someone's affections towards you are 'fickle,' I'm not sure what it means by that…characterized by lovesickness and disappointment. Sorry, mate."

Newton looked dejected. "Head up, Newt," Aziraphale encouraged him, "Anathema says there's not much point to these, anyway."

Crowley curled himself cozily into his chintz armchair and spoke in a drowsy drawl. "Mine's an eight of spades, anyone care to let me know what terrible calamities that means I can expect from my future before I fall asleep?"***

Aziraphale took Crowley's textbook. "Oh my, yours isn't very auspicious, either. 'Plans gone awry'—though it says that trouble can be avoided if you catch it early on. Trouble, misfortune, danger…"

"I'm quaking in my boots," Crowley yawned, and shut his eyes to fall into slumber.

"What's yours, Anathema?" Newton asked.

"Oh, the ace of hearts, but like I said, these aren't at all accurate," she said dismissively. "Aziraphale's is king of clubs, look his up for him."

"'Dark-haired or fire-dominated figure,'" Newton read. "'Represents a very good friend or lifelong companion.' Well, that's not incredibly enlightening, but at least it's not a gloomy reading, I guess."

They were let out of Divination early, after being assigned nightly dream journal entries.

"More homework, just what we needed," Crowley mumbled after Aziraphale had prodded him awake. Aziraphale helped pull him up from the squashy armchair, and the four of them made their way down through the trapdoor and away from the North Tower.

* * *

_Footnotes:_

*An action that might have seemed odd, if anyone but Aziraphale had done it.

**Trelawney and Anathema had a rather strained relationship, beginning when Anathema had openly scoffed at the dreamy-eyed professor's assertion that tealeaves provided one of the most practical forms of Divination during their first lesson in third year. The two of them often engaged in overly-polite debates about how to translate the results of various divining methods, while the rest of the class would look on curiously. However, Trelawney maintained a grudging respect for Anathema ever since the dark-haired Slytherin's prediction two years back that one of Hogwarts' teachers was a traitor—referring, of course, to the (literally) two-faced Professor Quirrell—had proven correct, and she tended to leave Anathema to her own devices during class.

***Crowley had a habit of sneaking naps during Divination lessons—the heat from the fire and silk-draped windows that most students found stifling had a comfortably soporific effect on him.


End file.
